


It calls me home (to breathe again)

by RavenXavier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Mind Manipulation, Post-Season/Series 03, Touch-Starved, Web!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:30:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: “I’ve come here,” says Annabelle at last, her voice very soft. “Because we’re worried about you. We don’t like very much what The Lonely has been doing.”Martin stares, taken aback.“I... I'm sorry,what?”





	It calls me home (to breathe again)

**Author's Note:**

> I am... Highly aware that this piece may no longer be canon-compliant literally in a few hours. But... I really wanted to write it, so, I did. And, besides, if it doesn't stay canon-compliant, it'll be because we'd have had a MARTIN UPDATE, maybe from THE MAN HIMSELF, and i'm up for that. 
> 
> Title comes from the song: "Calls me home" of Shannon Labrie
> 
> A big, massive, HUGE thank you to [ Arazsya ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/pseuds/Arazsya) for agreeing to betaread this for me, so quickly and with such efficiency! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Martin doesn’t know how or why he enters the coffee-shop. He’s got no reason to stay any longer than necessary in this town, and he’s acutely aware that Peter will be – expecting him. That some part of him may also be… eager to get back to him is uncomfortable, but he knew when he started this, didn’t he? He takes his phone out, for the seven or eight hundred times today, and stares for several long minutes at Jon’s name in his contact list. He wants to call, so badly. He wants – he _needs_ to see him, awake and well, he needs to chase away that image of his dead body on that hospital bed; he needs to hear his voice, sharp and just a little bit tired and annoyed: _Where_ are you _Martin?_

His fingers hover, but he doesn’t make the call. There’s a crippling, cold sense of loneliness nestling against his heart, stronger every time he thinks of Jon; almost comforting nowadays in its familiarity. It’s Jon who calls first. Jon has been trying to call at least once or twice every day since he’s woken up. Martin doesn’t answer.

The coffee shop is full of people; Martin is thirsty for them. He likes the loud, background noise of their chatting, their simple human warmth. It doesn’t quite reach him, but if he tries long enough, his hands don’t feel so icy. Of course, there’s nowhere else in the world one might feel as lonely as in here. Everybody here is with someone. Friends, lovers, family – even the people who are alone are chatting with the waiters (who’ve yet to notice Martin at all, in the corner he’s chosen to sit), or smiling down at their phones or computer. Martin aches but – and that’s pathetic, isn’t it, that’s the saddest part – he knows that this is not a result of Peter Lukas’… business with him. That’s just _him._ Martin Blackwood, isolated and alone, with a parent that disappeared years ago and another that hates him, with no friends outside of work and most of his coworkers either despising him or just plain dead.

There’s Jon, of course.

Except there isn’t. Probably. Maybe Jon just wants to yell at him for working for someone other than him. Martin wouldn’t know. He’s been erasing all his voicemails without listening to them.

He doesn’t really know when his back begins to itch. He dismisses it, at first, but it’s not like he’s got a lot of sensory stimulation nowadays; it doesn’t take that long for him to bite his lips, because his back feels like it’s being run over by a hundreds of small… things, and for a terrible, awful second, he’s got a flashback of Jane Prentiss, and he almost rises from his chair to run, when something unknown makes him turn his head abruptly and he sees her.

She’s a tall, painfully thin girl, with long black hair that hides half of her face and a huge, oversize black hoodie with a Spiderman symbol on it. She walks a little bit oddly, her gestures brisk and awkward, and yet she crosses the room to come to Martin fast, without bothering any of the tables between them. When she’s close enough, Martin sees the pale stitches that cover most of her forehead. He blinks and she smiles. It’s a sweet smile.

“Hello, Martin. May I sit?”

Martin thinks he should be scared. But he’s been scared for so long, and he’s met so many monsters. He’s in love with a man that may become one – may have become one already. He works closely with another whose grip is so stifling and appealing at once. And he’s survived… quite a few others. On the scale of things, the Web just – doesn’t do much to intimidate him.

Besides – Martin has always liked spiders.

“Hello, Miss Cane,” he says, politely. “…Do as you please, I guess.”

“Oh, call me Annabelle,” she tells him as she sits, playing with her sleeves. “Miss Cane – makes you look old.”

“…Okay,” says Martin. “Annabelle, then.”

Annabelle looks pleased. There’s a beat of silence, and Martin realizes he’s started to forget how you talk to people when you’re not – on the job. Does this count as the job? Annabelle _is_ a monster… It's hard to think of her like that, when she looks so young and quiet and _human_ but…

“Have you, um – Have you come to kill me?” he hazards at last.

Annabelle looks startled; almost offended. “Of course not,” she says, like it’s obvious.

Martin wonders why it _feels_ obvious. He doesn’t linger on why he’s disappointed for a brief, sharp second. Death shouldn’t be… something to expect. Nor want. It’s not good to dwell on that. He doesn’t – god, it’s awful to say, but he really, really doesn’t want to become Tim.

“I’ve come here,” says Annabelle at last, her voice very soft. “Because we’re worried about you. We don’t like very much what The Lonely has been doing.”

Martin stares, taken aback.

“I... I'm sorry, _what_?”

“Much as we try, very few people – or should I say, breathing beings – enter the Lonely's space if not invited or pushed in,” Annabelle explains slowly, her unnervingly long fingers curling around her hair in a very human fashion. “When you're in there, we cannot protect you, and you've been there more and more lately.”

“I don't – ” Martin closes his mouth. Thinks hard. Annabelle smiles again. “Why would the Web want to protect _me?_ ” he asks at last, wishing, not for the first time, that he could borrow a little bit of Jon's power in situations like these. “I'm not – I mean I, uh – I suppose I'm with... The Beholding. If anything, _it_ should care for my... well-being...”

He wishes he didn't sound as bitter as he does as his voice dies down.

“You don't seem to remember that you're with the Eye much though,” Annabelle points out, something like gentle reproach in her dark, dark eyes. “It has welcomed you, but you keep fleeing it for the Lukases.”

“I'm not – ” Martin begins, offended. “I'm not doing this for _pleasure,_ ” he tells her, straightening up. “The Institute is in danger, and Jon is – _was_ out of it, and what was I supposed to _do_? We couldn't rely on Melanie's fury to protect us forever, we had to do something, and Peter's deal was...better than _nothing,_ and it _worked,_ Jon's awake now –”

“Is that what he told you?” Annabelle cuts him. She sounds almost pitying, which irks Martin. “That the work you do for him is compensation for help waking the Archivist?”

“I – well he didn't...use those words...”

“My mistress sent help. Peter Lukas had nothing to do with it. He does not have many reasons to keep his alliance with the Eye when it's in... such a delicate position with the others.”

Martin feels like he might get sick. But he presses his lips together, and he says: “Well – well it still _helped._ Melanie and Basira have been... Better, safer, and everybody else at the Institute...”

“They don't matter,” Annabelle tells him quietly.

“Of _course they do.”_

“No,” she insists. “They don't. They're already protected, in their own ways. It's... very human of you to have stepped in, and perhaps you have indeed managed to distract Peter Lukas long enough. But it's time for you to come home, Martin.”

“Home?” Martin repeats; he feels a nervous, sad laughter bubbling down his throat. “Is that what the Institute is now? Home?”

“It's where the Archivist is,” Annabelle says kindly.

Martin flushes. He wishes he had something to hold; a cup of tea would have been nice. Instead he looks towards the window, eager to get away from Annabelle's gaze even for a few seconds. His brain is trying very hard to catch up with what's happening, but like always, he feels like he's missing something, something big and _important,_ that's probably going to cause a lot of problems if he doesn't figure it out.

“I don't understand,” he ends up saying. “Why do _you_ care?”

“You know why, deep down.” Annabelle nods encouragingly.

“I – ” Martin stares at his fingers. “I thought – I signed a contract, with The Beholding, Elias _said..._ ”

“The Eye likes you. We liked you first, Martin. We've always liked you. You're in the Eye's home, but only insofar as my mistress agreed to it. We knew you'd... Blossom, there.”

Martin laughs; he doesn't know if it's desperate or... something else. When Annabelle reaches out, and puts her hand over his, he does not startle; she brushes her thumb over his palm, and he trembles at the utter rightness of it. He doesn't know why, but he thought she would be cold – maybe he just thought that because _everything_ has been so cold around him for so long. He can't remember the last time he even touched another human being. Well... human being may be pushing it, when it comes to Annabelle, because now he can _feels_ that her fingers are wrong, _there are too many of them..._

He looks down at their intertwined hands. When had they...? He watches quietly as cobweb slowly appears; first around his wrist, and then builds and builds until both his hand and Annabelle's disappear into a strong, warm cocoon. He waits for fear. It doesn't come. He just – breathes out, slowly, carefully, and he wonders how long it's been since he’s been able to breathe so freely.

After what seems like a long, comfortable silence, he finally looks up. Annabelle's eyes are still kind. All eight of them. Her hair, which is not hair, he realizes now, but billions of billions of very small spiders, crawling, spinning, embracing, seems even longer than before, and some of the spiders are sliding down her arm to move closer to the cocoon.

“If the Web truly protects me,” he asks at last, “why be so eager to send me back to the Institute? You just said, the Eye is in a delicate position. Why would you help it still?”

“The others are not prone of seeing the big picture as we do,” Annabelle answers him. “We're certainly on the edge of something _quite new_ ; but it would be premature to cut ties with long-time allies just yet. It's better to wait and see; we must keep spinning, in every direction.”

Martin snorts. “So I'm – what, a spy?”

His throat is tight again when he thinks of Jon. Is he – god, what will he _think_? Is Martin... will he become like... will he have the same fate as Sasha? Will Jon believe...

“There are no spies under the Eye's roof,” Annabelle hums. “You're – our quiet, unassuming support.” She smiles again, slowly, sweetly. “You're our gift to Jon.”

He startles.

“You – you said _Jon.”_

“He _is_ Jon.”

“ _I_ know that. It's only that your – um – ” (your _kind_ doesn't seem elegant nor polite) “Avatars usually only call him the Archivist,” he finishes after a beat of hesitation.

Annabelle looks thoughtful for a moment. Eventually, she shrugs, and a few spiders fall from her shoulders.

“When my mistress encountered him first, he was Jon. She stayed fond of him.” She blinks, and suddenly, she's only got two eyes again. It's almost disconcerting. “I'm glad we talked, Martin, but I must go now. There is always work to do.”

The cocoon slowly recedes. Martin moves his fingers awkwardly, and feels hollow. Annabelle gives him a sympathetic look.

“We're always here, you know that,” she tells him, and reaches under her sweater to pull out a much bigger spider, that she reverently caresses before letting it run over the table. Martin does not even shiver when the spider crawls up his own arm until it arrives to his shoulder, where it nestles against his neck.

“No wonder you're still so friendly with the Eye,” he merely mutters weakly.

“The Eye does severely lack in subtlety,” Annabelle points out, a touch condescending, but she's quick to smile again.

She gets up, still a bit awkward, pushes her sleeves back until they almost hide her hands, and then she circles the table, bends over, and presses a very soft, lingering kiss on Martin's cheek.

“You know what to do, brother,” she whispers against his skin, so very sweet. “ _Call him and go home._ ”

_Call him and go home_ ; her words ring against his ear. He watches her leave, and can't remember saying goodbye. _Call him and go home._ The thought is here now, lingering at the forefront of his mind, soft, so soft, and yet persistent, impossible to push away – _Call him and go home._ He grabs his phone.

Jon left a message, of course; hearing his voice is exactly as good as Martin imagined it would be. _Martin_ he says, sharp and on edge, and then, he sighs, a long, tired sigh. Martin wishes he was there already, to fuss over him. Maybe, god, maybe just to offer him a cup of tea. But then Jon continues _Just... Call me back, will you? I don't know what Peter Lukas... Promised or said to you but you don't... I'm back, alright? Just. Call me back... Please._

It feels so good to listen to him that Martin could stay high just from this; but the thought, which sounded first like Annabelle's, now resonates with his own accent... Call him, and go home, Martin. Call him.

Call him.

What else is there to do?

The phone rings only for a few seconds before Jon answers the call.

“Martin,” he says, immediately, and his voice is – it's not what Martin had anticipated. It's _relieved._ It's _eager._

Martin blinks back tears of happiness.

“Hi, Jon,” he manages to say, his voice sweet and shaky.

It's time to go home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am still ready to chat and ramble and cry over everybody in this podcast on tumblr! You can find me [ here ](http://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com/)


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